Stanley, Stanford and Stan Oh, and Fiddleford
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: Yeah like MM (miss mystery, a guest.) gave me a prompt "that Stan didn't fake his death because of Rico" Or something and I love you but why did you inspire me I am so tired now like goodnight. This is dedicated to you, also to all the people who reviewed today, because you weren't the only one spamming me I mean like it was amazing. XD Anyways I am tired... don't die all!


**Prompt from MM. I'm not really sure if this is what you were looking for sis, but I've have been writing non-stop (lol Hamilton) since five-thirty this afternoon and my fingers HURT. I also wrote it on my phone, which I'm pretty sure made this take wayyyyy longer than it should've.**

 **I can't believe I wrote over five-thousandwordstodaymurderme.**

 **Also! tw's for uh...sadness and some fluff? Also, this: ... is a time skip and**

 **this: ... ...is a perspective/ time skip? Just so you aren't confused.  
...**

* * *

It was hard.

Stan stared at the wreckage with dull eyes, the glowing flames bringing light to his usually shadowed face. It had been a hard thing to do, but it had to be done.

Stanley Pines was no more.

Turning away, he shouldered his duffel bag over his shoulder and stepped off the road. It was time.

...

Year one.

The nights were cold and the days colder as he trudged through the empty streets. He thought about his car, wrapped like a bow around that pole as it burned. Maybe if Stanley Pines had been a better man, he wouldn't have had to say goodbye to him. Stan shook his head.

It was in the past anyway.

...

Year three.

Food was scarce. Friends were scarcer. Huddled in an abandoned barn, utterly alone. He slept uneasily. This new life was colder than the one he'd left behind.

Colder...and safer.

...

Year five.

His fingers fumbled with the rope as he tied it around his waist. It had been expensive, but everything was with an unsteady income. He leaned back on the trunk of the tree and stared at the stars as he fell asleep.

...

Year eight.

He stared at the plate with wonder. A boy wearing a ninja costume had given him a dinner plate stacked with what he recognized as Thanksgiving dinner foods.

How time flies by. He picked at it, savoring the flavors. It had been awhile.

...

Year ten.

The darkness crawled with unseen creatures. He stepped away from the shadows cast by the trees and made his way quickly towards the edge of the forest. He stepped away onto a road.

It was dirt. He was grateful.

He followed the dirt road. His feet sore, he nearly sat down to sleep. He didn't. The sounds from the forest spurred him on, making his heart beat faster.

He stopped.

A light.

He walked closer.

A town.

He pulled up his hood as the sun came over the hills. Townsfolk wandered the sidewalks, staring at him oddly. He wasn't sure he liked this town.

He pushed onward, heading up a path into the woods. Better the sounds of creatures than the stares of men.

He wasn't sure where he was going. He hadn't known since he walked away from the crash.

It didn't matter anyway.

The path ended. He stood on top of a hill. He sat against a tree, shifting his bag into his lap.

The sounds seemed sweeter in the daylight. He dozed.

... ...

...

The day Stanford heard of his brother's death, he had been writing a thesis on the maintaining of power throughout the world from a single source. (A supernatural source, as it were.) The phone rang from his desk and he dropped his pen (like he ever made mistakes, no need for pencils) onto the desk to pick it up.

"Stanford Pines."

"Sweetie?"

"Ma?" Stanford's brow furrowed. His mother never called.

"Yes, sweetie. Have you read today's paper?" She jumped right in, no need for a hello or even a 'how are you?'.

"No, why?" Stanford glanced at the bin where he had thrown in the paper without looking at it, too busy to care.

"You...you might want to, sweetie." She sniffed and Stanford stared at the bin suspiciously. He set down the phone, leaving his mother on the line to retrieve the newspaper from the trash. He sat down again to pick up the line.

"Ma, this is about the re-election. You know I don't care much for politics." Stanford was staring at the front page, already exhausted by the conversation.

"Page three sweetie." His mother sounded tired. Stanford flipped through the page and stopped.

 _MAN KILLED IN CAR CRASH_.

 _Reporter Susan Hemberg found today the wreckage of a one 'Stanley Pines'._

 _With proper research, the man found dead at the scene was a marketer from New Jersey, traveling state to state to sell malfunctioning wares. He was wanted in three states, often going by different names to continue his fraudulent advertising._

"Sweetie?"

Stanford fell back in his chair, hand over his mouth.

"I'll- I'll call you back ma."

He placed the phone into the receiver and held the paper in both hands as his eyes ran over the words again and again- not quite comprehending.

...

Year 1

Nothing changed, yet everything did. So much sat unresolved, yet there he was, moving forward as if that part of his life had been nothing at all.

How cold had he become?

...

Year two

Birthdays weren't something he celebrated anymore. Fiddleford was confused. Stanford didn't explain. He never did.

It just hurt too much to try.

...

Year five

Graduation was a good distraction. He laughed and smiled and he forgot.

For awhile.

...

Year eight

Gravity Falls had so much. The days were spent in warmth and many, many distractions.

Sleeping wasn't something he did often. Fiddleford noticed and tried to make him take naps. Naps were a good distraction. No time to enter REM sleep and dream.

...

Year nine

The ache was dull. Distractions were at peak efficiency. Stanford Pines was fine. He was FINE.

...

Year ten

"Fiddleford!" Stanford called, his voice echoing through the too large cabin. He nodded in satisfaction as Fiddleford entered the room.

"Yes, Stanferd?" Fiddleford asked, adjusting his glasses. It was early morning, but Fiddleford was wide awake.

Stanford, of course, just hadn't slept.

Pushing several things around on his desk, Stanford finally located a sheet of paper from within the pile. He handed it to Fiddleford, who started reading off it as Stanford explained.

"These are just a few things will be needing for our trip tomorrow- could you run to town and pick them up?"

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, shoving the sheet into his pocket. "Do ya really need the jellybeans, Stanferd?"

"Well...not technically..." Stanford started. Fiddleford laughed.

"Alrigh', alrigh', I'll be back Stanferd." He turned to walk out. "Yer welcome!"

"Thank you Fiddleford!"

Stanford settled back in his chair and began mapping out the area they'd be exploring in just twenty-four or so hours.

He smiled. Distractions were too easy.

... ...

...

Year ten, month 1.

Stan was relaxed against the tree, his breathing even, when the screeching sounds of a car brake pulled him from his peace and made him jump, his mind returning to the old days of gunshots and car chases. His eyes were wide and his movements quick as he shot away from the road, further into the woods.

The sound of the car braking stopped, indicating the car was parked and Stan slowed down, heaving in heavy breaths from the unexpected exertion. He was covered in branches and bramble, his face scuffed up from the thorns of several branches. He stood there as he calmed himself. Assuring himself that the man couldn't possibly want anything with him.

"Are ya alrigh'!?"

He jerked around, stunned to see a man had followed him into the woods. He stared.

The man cleared his throat. "Mighty sorry. I wouldn't have bothered ya, but these woods are easy ta git lost in. I couldn't leave ya ta that."

Stan didn't say anything. He wasn't sure he could. The man's brow furrowed slightly, but he smiled. He stuck out his hand. "Fiddleford McGucket! At yer service."

Stan slowly met his hand with Fiddleford's and they shook once before he pulled his hand away. He stared at this Fiddleford for a moment. Should he introduce himself? The man had, yet he wasn't quite sure what to say.

Stanley Pines was dead. He didn't _want_ to be Stanley Pines.

He came to a quick decision, uncreative but it did the job.

"Uh...Stan." He stated. The man smiled at him.

"Well, it's nice ta meetcha Stan! Say, why don't we get ourselves outta these woods?"

Stan just nodded as the man turned, heading back towards the road.

Stan watched Fiddleford as he led them both back to the road with almost a sense of...awe.

It had been a while since he'd...spoken. To anyone.

He found he didn't mind it so much.

...

"My, ya ran pretty far out, didn't ya?" Fiddleford asked, a rhetorical question, but Stan nodded.

As they walked, Stan studied the man beside him. He was small. Not so small to be confused with a child, just...small. Stan did stand at six feet, so most people seemed small. Yet this man was also skinny, which seemed to make him seem even smaller.

{ I've said small too much, moving on. }

He had a mess of longish brown hair and a pair of round glasses sat on his nose precariously. And, Stan wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed thus before, he was wearing an almost too big white coat. Stan cocked a brow. Clearing his throat, he tried to start a conversation.

It had been too long.

"So, uh...why the coat?" Stan stared ahead as Fiddleford glanced at him.

"Hmm? Oh, ya mean my white overcoat? I'ma scientist. I suppose I don' really need it but it halps with gettin' me in a good mindset fer workin'." Fiddleford explained. He frowned slightly. "Ya think we shoulda found the road by now, Stan?"

Stan held a large branch out of the way and the smaller man nodded in appreciation as he ducked through. Stan shrugged.

"Uh...maybe? Its been years since...since I've paid attention to where my feet take me."

Fiddleford glanced at him curiously. Stan shrugged again and Fiddleford eventually sighed.

"Well, Stan. I think in mah attempt ta git ya outta here without gettin' lost, we got lost." Fiddleford laughed once before he sighed again and stopped moving. Stan stopped with him and watched as Fiddleford sat against a tree, yawning.

Stan raised a brow, "Tired?"

Fiddleford snorted. "Always. My boss is an insomniac, an' I don't do well with sleep mahself."

Stan nodded. "Ya know, you kinda remind me of my brother."

Stan settled down acrossed from fiddleford and Fiddleford hummed in curiosity.

"Really? What was his name?"

Stan sighed. Although the majority of his memories were fond, he couldn't help it as that one horrific night flashed to the front of his mind. It took him a moment, but he eventually answered. He didn't want to stop the first conversation he'd started in over ten years.

It was his fault for mentioning his brother anyway.

"Heh, Stanford. Total nerd. Haven't seen him years though."

Fiddleford froze. "Yer jokin'."

Stan looked up at Fiddleford, who was staring adamantly at him. Fiddleford's eyes widened in shock, but from what Stan couldn't tell.

"Does yer brother have six fingers!?"

Stan yelped, "Yer boss is my brother!?"

Fiddleford started laughing, chuckling so hard, Stan could see tears springing to his eyes.

"I- I can't bahlieve th- this!" Fiddleford forced the words past his laughter. "Yer! Yer, the mystery problem!"

Stan was shocked, his mind still playing catch up. He asked;

"Mystery problem?"

Fiddleford took in several deap breaths, calming himself enough to speak, but still wiping tears from his eyes.

"Somethin' always seemed...off with Stanferd. Never talked much about his family. Always workin' too hard." Fiddleford stared up at Stan in awe.

Stan cleared his throat, uncomfortable, but Fiddleford just blinked.

"Ya both look so similar..." He started. Stan nodded.

"Uh, yeah. He's my twin." Stan winced internally as Fiddleford's mirth melted into a certain sort of sadness.

"He...he never told me." Fiddleford's face was overcome with shock. "He never told me! We've been friends fer so long...an' he never told me."

Stan swallowed. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, from anything. He wasn't even sure what he had been expecting all those years ago, when he burned his past away, killing Stanley for good. All he knew was that it was supposed to be _better_.

Now, he sat with a man in the woods, who happened to be a friend? Of his brother who he hadn't seen in over ten years.

Life was full of surprises, Stan supposed.

Fiddleford was going between gaping at him in shock and pacing, tiredness apparently was forgotten for the time being. Stan stood up, stretching out his legs before grabbing Fiddleford lightly by the arm.

"Hey, uh...can I call ya Fidds?" Fiddleford nodded, looking at him with wide eyes. Stan coughed.

"Yeah, look Fidds. My brother and I had a sorta...falling out years ago. I'm not surprised he didn't tell ya about me. He tends to suppress things that...bother him."

Fiddleford gaped. "Musta been a bad fallin' out."

Stan let go of Fiddleford's arm and rubbed at his neck. "Not to most people, but my family was ticked."

Fiddleford blinked. "Ya did somethin'?"

Stan grimaced. "Look, I'm not defending myself when I say it was an accident, that's just a fact. Anyway, it doesn't matter." Stan looked away, brushing away at his filthy jacket. "We should probably keep looking for the road, eh?"

Fiddleford shook himself out of his head and an apologetic look came over his face. Before he could apologize, Stan waved it away.

"Don't worry about it, Fidds. Ya weren't prying or anything."

Fiddleford sighed in relief but didn't try to bring the topic up again as they trudged forward. Stan was hyper aware of Fiddleford glancing towards him ever once in awhile, but he tried not to let it bother him. The man was just as surprised as Stan was.

They walked in silence for thw most part. Stan's mind was working in overdrive, wondering how on Earth he had wandered to his brother's home town on accident. On foot from across the country no less.

It took him ten years, but still. It was strange.

Fiddleford had stopped looking back at him in favor of looking anxious.

"Stan, I'm really not sure where ta go, I don' recognize where we are."

Stan hummed in acknowledgment. He hadn't talked so much in years. His throat was tired and his mind and emotions were exhausted by the shocks delivered to them. He stopped abruptly, staring up at the sky through the thick foliage. Fiddleford turned to ask him why he'd stopped, but that's when Stan jumped, grabbing onto a sturdy branch above him.

Fiddleford yelped as Stan started climbing the tree lithely. He was more agile than he looked. Not wanting to distract Stan and possibly make him fall, Fiddleford could only figure that Stan was trying to locate where they were by climbing to the top.

Dangerous, but usually effective and intelligent, Fiddleford had to admit.

Stan climbed quickly up the tree, not taking more than a second to check the sturdiness of each branch. He kept his wieght as evenly distributed as he could and before he knew it he was at the top.

He wasn't on the tallest tree, but he could see over the majority just fine. He glanced the hill he had been sleeping on, and even a cabin not too far off, which he supposed was where Fiddleford lived...and his brother. Stan shook the thought away and, making a note of which direction to walk {they'd been walking parrelell, rather than toward it} began working his way down the tree.

Stan worked quickly, jumping the last ten feet or so to the ground. Fiddleford jumped back as he fell, and glared at him.

"Ya are no better than yer brother, are ya Stan?" Fiddleford rolled his eyes, muttering something about how people named Stan had no sense of safety. Stan's brows raised in question, but he was smirking.

He was having...fun. He jogged towards the direction they needed to head and laughed as Fiddleford sputter, breaking into a jog himself to keep up.

"Yer way too- too fond o' runnin'!"

Stan threw back his head and laughed.

"You have no idea, Fidds!"

... ...

...

Stanford was anxious.

Well, he was always anxious, but this was worse. Fiddleford should've been back hours ago. Stanford paced for several minutes after the clock had announced Fiddleford's third hour gone and he finally couldn't take it anymore. Throwing on his trenchcoat, the many pockets already loaded with supplies, he ran out the door.

He wished that he still had his car as he jogged up the steep hill, panting. Steve the tree giant had eaten it long ago, and he'd never bothered to replace it.

He nearly fell back in surprise as he saw Fiddleford's truck parked right over the hill, the driver's door wide open. He sprinted the last few feet towards it, his heart racing when Fiddleford wasn't to be found. He took a minute to regulate his breathing before taking in the scene.

The keys weren't in the ignition, which meant Fiddleford hadn't been kidnapped, probably. Unless the perpetrator wanted his keys and not the car, for some unfathomable reason. He stepped back and noticed that the brush to his left seemed broken up.

His heart stopped.

A worn down, red duffel bag sat by a tree. He stared at it suspiciously as memories began to flood him. He shook as they came front and center and he fought to force them back.

Adjusting his glasses, he kneeled by the bag, pulling on the zipper. It looked just like the one-

No, he wasn't thinking about that. He opened up the bag and slowly pulled out the contents.

There was two pairs of clothes, surprisingly clean. A book, knuckledusters? Several granola bar wrappers and...

Stanford's hand shook as he pulled out a framed photo from beneath a pair of gloves. It held two boys, their smiles glinting identically.

Stanford couldn't stop the memories. Ten years of suppression was thrown out the window in the one moment as it all flooded back. The distractions wouldn't help him now.

A tear fell on the glass of ghe photo as he held it in his polydactyl hands.

Stanley.

Wait. How had this gotten here!? Stanford growled. Stanley was dead. Who would have any of this, only to drop it!?

Preoccupied by the mystery of the owner, Stanford nearly forgot Fiddleford until voices started sounding off in the distance in the direction he'd seen the broken branches. He bounced back to his feet, his hands still gripping the old photograph, his mind racing in a million {actually four} different directions.

Was it possible someone was trying to deliver Stanley's things to him? After so many years...? It was possible. Stanford wasn't the easiest man to find and if Stanley had friends...but then where was Fiddleford? We're these two people together?

The voices we're getting louder and Stanford stepped towards them. He strained his ears. He thought maybe he recognized the southern drawl of his friend. He called out, excited and relieved. Perhaps this would grant him a distraction.

"Fiddleford! Professor! Is that you!?" Stanford called out. The voices stopped for a brief moment before they yelled back.

"Stanferd! We're over here!"

Stanford sighed in shaky relief, but then the next question that had to be asked who was the second person in 'we'?

Not wanting to risk anything, he continued calling out when Fiddleford's voice seemed to grow softer. He laughed in triumph when he saw Fiddleford's tell tale white coat through the brush.

"Fiddleford! Over here!"

Fiddleford broke through the brush first, and Stanford braced him in an unexpected hug. Stanford had to admit that although Fiddleford tended to mother hen him, he felt equally responsible for the safety of his friend.

"Fiddleford, where have you been!? Did you ever even leave to town!?"

Despite Stanford's worried questions, Fiddleford was smiling.

"Stanferd, ya have no idea." Gesturing behind him, Fiddleford grinned.

"I want ya ta meet my friend." He was grinning ear to ear and Stanford stepped back.

"Stan Pines."

... ...

...

Stan was...not okay? Yet he was better than he had been in years. He stood behind a tree as Fiddleford ran towards his brother, talking excitedly. Stan sat by and listened to every word. When he heard his brother call out to them in the woods, he felt something inside of him. Like he was coming to the end...of something.

He was...not not okay.

He stiffened in shock as Fiddleford introduced him. Suddenly his feet were moving on autopilot and for the first time in ten years, Stanley really wished they wouldn't.

His heart was beating too fast. Was he scared? He was scared.

Today had been a lot to take in, and today wasn't even half over.

He glanced up, and was suddenly overly conscious that he was a mess. He was skinnier than he had ever been as a teen, like Ford, but leaner, and everything he wore was filthy, hanging off of him, meant for a bigger man.

Stan was a mess. Physically, emotionally, mentally.

He wasn't ready for this.

Yet when he looked up, he couldn't turn from it.

He was here and their was no going back.

... ...

...

Stanford watched as a man stepped out from behind a tree robotically, as if had been something he hadn't meant to do.

His hands were shaking and he dropped the photo. No one acknowledge it.

Stanford recalled the day he'd found out about his brothers death. After he hung up, and the words on that cursed paper finally sunk it, he had been a mess. He missed several weeks of classes

that semester, and Fiddleford, his roommate at the time, was at a loss of what to do.

Stanford hadn't been able to handle it. Stanley was always fine, always better. He had friends and charisma and a...a HEART. He was going to be fine on his own.

Yet Stanley had died first. Too young, too alone.

Stanford had left him alone.

If nothing else proved that Stanford had a heart, it was the guilt that ate away at him. The guilt that was easier to push away and box up because he was never going to have it resolved, because Stanley was dead.

It was a fact.

Yet here a man stood, with a face like his, scruffed and dirty, but the resemblance was there.

That was a fact too.

He never did handle contradiction well.

He fell to his knees, right beside the picture. His breathing coming in as ragged gasps.

"You- you are _dead_."

Stanford seethed between each shudder in his breathing. Tears were falling unannounced from his eyes. He curled his arms around himself. His throat was growing sore as he started sobbing.

It had all come on so abruptly.

He flinched as a pair of arms fell round him and he look up to see the man claiming to be his brother sitting in front of him. The man met his eyes and smiled sadly.

"Heya, Poindexter." The man rasped.

Stanford's eyes widened for a moment. No one, not even the bullies at school had ever called him that.

Only one person called him that.

Stanford sobbed harder leaning over his legs, holding his chest with his arms, as if he could hold back the wave of pain that was flowing through him. Several warm arms came over his back and he knew Fiddleford and...and Stanley we're holding him.

His glasses fell and he rubbed at his eyes as the tears fell.

...

He woke up.

He wasn't sure how they'd gotten home. A blurry memory of being led into Fiddleford's truck made it's way through the headache his head was swimming in.

He sat up blearily. His glasses were gone and he was on...the couch? His hand searched blindly for his glasses. He jumped slightly as a hand caught his, placing his glasses in his hand. He was swaying uneasily, exhausted.

Placing on his glasses, he blinked as everything came into focus.

"Better?"

Stanford jerked his head to see-

"Stanley."

His eyes were wide again, and his breathing began speeding up again until Stanley took hold of his arms and told him to breathe, making him focus. Stanford swallowed.

Stanely looked...awful. almost like the living dead.

Dead.

"You're dead."

Stanford wasn't sure where he was going with that either. It's okay because neither do I, the story teller and crap I've been writing for four hours straight-

Ahem, sorry, back to the story.

Stan snorted. "Yeah, I know."

Stanford stared at him, confused. "So you're a ghost?" Stanford asked. Perhaps it seemed silly, but he was tired and had also researched ghosts before...

"Nah." Stan leaned back, placing his hands in his pockets. His eyes wandered the room.

"Ya know, ya did really well for yourself, Sixer." Stan glanced at him and huffed.

"Although I here someone hasn't been sleeping." Stan gave him a hesitation half smile. "Ya know that ain't good for you."

Stanford blinked. "That's a double negative. Stanley, why aren't you dead?" Stanford asked bluntly.

Stan laughed once, before his smile fell again.

"You're still a nerd. And I'm alive because my death wasn't real. Kinda. I don't go by Stanley anymore. I haven't for ten years. Before ya ask, I haven't really had a name? I don't talk much..." Stan coughed and stared at the large animal skull that had drawn his attention when he first walked in. "I just told Fidds Stan, because it seemed a bit weird I hadn't introduced myself."

Stanford blinked slowly. "So you've just shortened it to Stan?"

Stan laughed and rubbed at his neck. "I know, not crazy creative, but it was kinda time sensitive. It would seem weird to say, 'give me a sec to give myself a cool name because I kinda don't know what it is anymore.'" Stan sighed and muttered.

" A lot's happened today..." He perked up. " Ya know, I wasn't trying to find ya. I mean, not that I'm not happy to see you- I am- but i kinda figured that being dead and you hating me-

"Hating you?" Stanford cut Stan's exposition off and Stan's brows furrowed.

"Uh, yeah. Well, I just figured you wouldn't want me comin' around. Didn't know where ya lived anyway..." Stan trailed off. Stanford just then realized, Stan seemed...nervous.

Stanford cleared his throat. Stan looked up at him, waiting.

"So why did you abandon, Stanley?"

Stan chuckled, but it sounded strained.

"Uh...what?"

Stanford sat up further on the couch, incidentally leaning closer.

"Why did you abandon my brother?"

Stan gaped at him silently for a moment. Stanford nodded for him to hurry up and explain.

Stan shook his head, shrugging. "I- Stanley was a failure and a criminal. I mean, so is Stan, I guess, but Stan also doesn't have angry mobs chasing him, or a family to disappoint or-"

"A twin?" Stanford finished his sentence off for him, and Stan stiffened for a moment before slumping with a sigh.

"No...no, he always had a twin."

Stanford nodded slowly.

"Well... Stanford didn't."

Stan didn't bother looking shocked this time. He just ran a tired hand through his hair. "What?"

Stanford didn't stop nodding for another moment.

"Nope. Stanford Pines pH.d didn't have a twin. Or a brother or a family. He had work and a friend and Stanford Pines was okay with that, because the distractions kept him from needing any of those things.

Stanford Pines picked up the phone one day and his non-existent mother was on the line telling Stanford to read the paper and suddenly Stanford's non-existent twin was dead and he didn't even have what he never had anymore."

Stanford buries his head into his hands.

"Stanford didn't understand and now he does and he doesn't want Stanley to be gone because if Stanley is back he can finally have a second- second chance." Stanford... Ford's breath hitched on a sob and Stan's hand ran over his back. He looked up and Stan smiled softly at him. Ford's eyes were watering again, and if he'd been bothering to look, so we're Stan's.

Stan suddenly stood up, bring Ford with him. Ignoring the tears, Stan stuck out his hand.

"Hey, the names Stanley Pines! Local crook! I have a twin who is a HUGE nerd and a best friend who talks in the third person for like an entire three paragraphs." Stan winked. "Hint, it's the same person."

Ford snorted horrifically. He laughed and took his brother's hand.

"My name is Ford, six fingered nerd of the world and avid Star Treck fan. I have a twin brother who is way too good at faking his death," Stanley winced but he was smiling, "and to whom I need to tell something very important."

Ford leaned forward conspiritorly. "I really missed you...but you reek."

Ford pushed his arm away and fell back into the couch, snickering. Stanely groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Wow, so much for the heart to heart. Love you too bro."

Ford held out his hand and Stanley pulled him up again. Ford didn't stop until he holding Stan in a hug. Stan rolled his eyes.

"Oh, now you love me. What happened to 'you reek?'"

Ford grunted. "Well, you do."

"Then why ya huggin' me?" Stanley asked, still mostly joking.

Ford hummed. "Thank you, Stan. For bringing Stanley back."

Stanley smiled and he held Ford tighter. "Thanks for reminding me of him."

...

Fiddleford watched on from the kitchen as both his friends laughed themselves silly in the living room. He rolled his eyes.

"Great. Now I gotta clean up after two childre- Pines boys."

He smiled as he set the table for dinner. He didn't really mind.

* * *

 **And this is the crap I've busied my entire day with, I'ma go sleep after doing chores and then get up at five freakin' am or earlier to go to seminary and then maybe die a little on the inside or something idek.**

 **Stan: WHY AM I, TWO PEOPLE!?**

 **Ford: WHAT IS GOING ON!?**

 **Me: I look like a dying platypus. That's a legit thought I had when I looked into my dying face earlier. I DON'T EVEN KNOW GUYS. THANK MM FOR THIS! Love ya though, don't die, guys! STOP. IT. GRAMMARLY. Also I wasn't lying about writing this all in one sitting, there is NO WAY I am proof-reading this or even trying to edit. ANywayS BUY! I MEANT BYE BUT WHATEVER!**


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